


Playing House

by SenkoWakimarin



Series: Fake It 'til the Wedding Bells [1]
Category: Punisher (Comics)
Genre: An Actual Relationship but Like They Refuse to Talk About It, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Deepthroating, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-20 11:52:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19376155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: It's a necessary ruse to secure a simple goal, and it changes nothing, no matter how good Lieberman looks in that suit or how much Frank wants to kill every sonnuvabitch who touches him while he's in it.





	1. Make it Work

As good as Lieberman has proven to be in just about every scenario Frank's asked him to step up in, he always digs his heels in at first. A lot of bitching, a lot of doubt, all of it winding down to the same core issue: Micro didn't like getting out from behind the computer screen and seeing the real work done.

Lieberman is good at what he does. He's actually good at a hell of a lot of things; that's the reason Frank hasn't cut him loose yet. 

One of the reasons. The only one that really matters.

But Lieberman, while not lazy -- he looks like a man people would call lazy, but Frank only made that mistake once -- thinks he's better suited to the more sedentary parts of the job. Ask him to dig through backlogs of misfiled data, half of it in incomprehensible legalese or tech-speak, and he waded into the job with willing gusto. Hand him the tools and ask him to upgrade, wholesale build, or just break down and repair a weapon or programmable machine, he was a regular eager beaver, happier than a pig in mud.

"This is a dumb fucking idea," he growls, thick arms crossed over his tits, face crinkled in that pissy expression he gets when he decides to be stubborn. Frank ignores his face, takes in the rest of him in that get-up. Where his arms cross, the soft, expensive shirt bunches; the buttons on the vest sit a little tight on his middle but not so tight it looks bad... he should have the rest of the three-piece on, but he's in full-swing bitch-mode, so he's still just wearing the shirt and dark vest over tailored slacks, looks perfectly out of place in the dingy room they're operating out of currently.

For all intents and purposes, it's just a costume, but Lieberman makes the suit look good. Puts lines on him, and when he has the jacket on, the soft curves of his frame resolve into solid lines, clean angles. He looks different in a suit and tie, like some rich jackass, the soft purple shirt brings out his eyes -- he looks vain and showy, and that's half the damn point. 

"I can play dress up all you want, Castle, but no one is going to buy this."

"You got the easy part, Lieberman," Frank says, looking back down to make sure he gets the buttons of his own shirt right. Unlike Lieberman, he won't be wearing a tie -- or a jacket, or any of the rest. Dress pants and a shirt so thin it was practically see-through, tailored to hug his frame. He's meant to look like eye-candy, and the fact that Lieberman's eyes can't seem to pick a part of him to stare at say enough of how well he's managed. "You're just getting us through the door. Into the back. I get to stick around for the fun part after you play one too many bad hands."

Frank ignores the stormy look that darkens Lieberman's face. The fun part is the part where Frank goes to work. The easy excuse for that pissy face Lieberman's wearing is that he finds Frank's brand of fun distasteful. 

"And what if the high rollers have more firepower than we're expecting, huh?"

It's harder to listen to this shit. Frank tries to tune it out; he doesn't know what to do with someone acting like they give a shit if he gets hurt. Tuning it out is hard, too, in its own way -- Lieberman is one of the few men who won't just whither back into himself when Frank gives him a look, and he might let the argument rest for now, but it's easy to tell he's not done being a bitch about it.

Grumbling under his breath, Frank fumbles trying to get the buttons on his wrists. Stupid fucking things, slippery and tiny. It'd be easier to just roll the sleeves up to his elbows -- give him better range of motion, too -- but that's not in _fashion_. And the disguise here relies on him looking like he gives a shit (or maybe Lieberman gives a shit) about fashion.

"Jesus Christ, just -- move your stupid hand, god," Lieberman bats his hands away, stepping in to get the buttons, fastening them easily. Frank could snap back that it's easier two-handed and when you're not the one in the damn shirt, but he can see the way Lieberman's hands tremble, just a little. The one missing a finger shakes a little harder than the other, and Frank... gets it. Kind of.

Lieberman smells fantastic. Some fancy aftershave, overlaying but not quite masking the smell of sweat and Irish Spring. It's a little jarring to realize what Frank wants -- what he'd do if they weren't a couple minutes before showtime on a big job they can't be late for. Too much effort, too much work has gone into getting them this far, but Christ -- some other time, maybe. After the job, when he can rub Lieberman's face in it going just as smooth as he promised.

It won't go that smooth. It never does. But it's not gonna crash and burn like Lieberman's worried it will, either. 

When Lieberman starts to pull away to grab his jacket, Frank grabs him, keeps him there with a hand on each shoulder, meeting the fire in his eyes with direct, cool assurance. "We are doin' this. I wouldn't let anybody else run this with me, you got that? I don't need you wringin' your hands, I just need you to pay attention and get us in."

There's not much that Lieberman could do to look intimidating, not in Frank's eyes. His furrowed brow and thin-pressed lips just make Frank want stupid, pointless things; if he were the sort to look for good-luck kisses, he'd use that as an excuse. He's not, so he just digs his fingers into the softness of Lieberman's arms and holds him there instead, holds him until Lieberman huffs an irritable sigh and nods.

"If De Rossi isn't as queer as we've been lead to believe, this is gonna blow up in our faces seven ways to Sunday," he grumbles, and Frank can't help the sharp little grin that puts on his face. "I mean, operating out of the back of a gay bar gives some credence to that, but..."

“You think anyone’s gonna say no to you lookin’ like that,” Frank says, largely to watch colour burn up Lieberman’s face, almost instant. He never goes red like that any other time Frank’s watched him; he can say all kinds of shit that would have Frank tongue-tied and flushed brow to belly; he can say that shit wearing nothing but socks and a grin and he doesn’t bat an eye. 

Give him a vague compliment he ain’t ready to hear, though, and all the sudden he’s a high school boy winked at by a cheerleader. 

It’s dangerous, dangerous to find him so endearing, but it’s hardly on Frank, is it? It’s human, and as much as Frank’s tried, he can’t kill the human in him without being as bad, maybe worse, than the shitheads he puts down. 

Lieberman ducks his head after as second, muttering that Frank’s an asshole, and that’s fine. He’s not wrong, and he’s not really arguing at that point. When Frank releases his shoulders, Lieberman straightens his glasses, grabs his jacket and slings it on. The gloves, padded to disguise his missing finger, were shoved in his pockets; Frank wouldn’t have to remind him to put them on. Between the two of them, Lieberman certainly isn’t the dumb one.

The suit really does look good. Frank’s not above letting himself look. 

“De Rossi likes things that’re off-menu,” Lieberman says, picking lint off his shoulders with a grimace of distaste. Frank’s not sure if the face is over the lint or over De Rossi, but he can’t remember Lieberman ever really caring about the state of his clothes that much, so he’s got a hunch. “So finish ogling now, because no one’s going to believe you staying behind if you spend all night staring at me like… _that_.”

“I dunno,” Frank lets himself leer a little, enjoys the withering look Lieberman gives back even as his face starts going all red again, “Sounds like it makes me more off menu, don’t it?”

“You’re gonna get us both shot,” Lieberman says, half wondering. “You think anyone’s gonna believe my gay-for-pay bodyguard is lured off by some grease-ball when you’re staring at me like my dick is your reason for living? Knock it off. Save the flirty bullshit for De Rossi.”

He’s right, even if the way he says it makes Frank’s fists itch. “This’s why I keep you around, Lieberman. Always such a joy to work with.”

“Yeah, check back in after you bag De Rossi,” Lieberman gripes, giving Frank a sharp one-over before turning for the door. “We’ll see what I can find for you to work with then.”


	2. Showmanship

It’s easy, playing bodyguard. 

Frank's filled this role in various ways with various people a thousand times before. The current of attraction running between Lieberman and him isn't exactly a put on but it's only obvious because Lieberman _makes it_ obvious. Lieberman bites his lip and looks him over in obvious, considering ways, smiling this oily, sleazy smile that's foreign to his face, putting on the act the second the limo picks them up out front of some ritzy hotel neither of them would feel comfortable in.

The last words Lieberman said before shedding his skin to slip into this jovial, flirty, not-quite-flamboyant Other stick in Frank's craw worse than the act does. Lieberman's eyes, still sparked with the remnants of his irritation from the motel room, were a brighter green with the soft purple cotton of his shirt as a compliment, and they mocked him as he said, "Try a smile, why don't you?"

On the ride over, no one to act for but the driver, Lieberman barely said two words to him, but the way he looked -- it was strange, seeing Lieberman dressed up to play shark. He made an odd predator, sort of like a bear; big and soft looking but something in him still radiated a sense of power, a sense that fucking with him was likely unwise. 

It's an act, the same way his lingering gaze and oily smile is an act. The way he waited for the door to be opened for him before getting out of the car, the way he casually pressed his gloved fingers to Frank's shoulder -- hell, the pomade in his hair and the tailored goddamn suit, the whole fucking thing is an act, a ruse to get them close to the mark. None of it fucking matters, just like none of the shit they get up to in the dark, privately, is never going to matter.

Frank still finds himself gritting his teeth when Lieberman lets the men at the bar touch him, hands grazing his shoulders, fingers brushing errant hairs from his forehead. It's easier when Lieberman's the one reaching out, putting on that he's some rich, middle aged bastard from Bugshit Nowhere, bored with his usual company and ready to let loose in this poorly lit, over-priced bar in the city.

It's easier, but Frank doesn't like it much. His job is to look bored but attentive, more look than substance. His responses to Lieberman are limited to 'Yes sir' and, occasionally, 'No sir'; he has to sit and watch for hours while Lieberman circulates, buying drinks, chatting, touching... 

He sees no sign of discomfort in Lieberman as he sets about making friends with exactly the right people, laughing, eventually letting himself be guided to a table. That's good, that's what they need -- so Frank has to be just as good as Lieberman, better even; he can't snap anyone’s fingers just for lingering on Lieberman's collar when the whole fucking point of this is to _make them_ linger. 

None of these geeks give a shit about Lieberman. They see a soft mark, some rich country fag overnighting in the city and come to see how the other half lives. They see a big man who might drop big money on them if they convince him to let them keep him company while he’s in town, and the one Lieberman is greasing the most, smiling the prettiest for, making eyes with; that’s Luca Gelli, rumored to be De Rossi's current partner, the key to the invite they need to the big game tonight. They already made sure there's an open chair to be filled; Lieberman is just a convenient sheep to be fleeced. 

They don't know him. That's the point, Frank keeps telling himself, it's _good_ they don't see under the soft, flirty, open affection Lieberman puts on. He's good at it, it makes something in Frank twist and whine when he gives him that hungry, 'saving you for later' look every time De Rossi's boyfriend makes a remark about what they might get up to after drinks. 

Frank's the only one here who knows Lieberman has a mean left hook, that he can shoot a man dead without flinching, that his hands are strong and smart whether he's touching in anger or just to make him feel good. It's an act, and they want these shitheads fooled by it, want them laughing at Lieberman's colourless jokes, touching his hand, his shoulder, his knee. Frank can't hurt them, not yet, not just for doing what they need them to do.

But every time one of them leans in to talk or touch, acting like they need to sit closer to hear when what they're really doing is putting their own acts on, Frank has to clench his hands where they're locked together behind his back and resist the urge to start swinging. 

"So what _are_ you doing later," Gelli, De Rossi's boytoy, asks as he glances between Lieberman and Frank. "Big plans?"

"Well, I was hopin' to find myself some fun," Lieberman says. He puts the softest accent to the words, voice just slightly wrong from how he usually talks, urbane and yet rustic, rich pampered heir to some vague old-money family. All ambiguous enough to sound above board, plausible, there's enough closets swinging open in those types of families, everyone quick to fly the liberal, open-minded flag now that the country's set on pretending it's at peace. "Believe it or not, I do get tired of playin' the same games, and Jack here isn't exactly what you'd call imaginative."

"Oh, I bet he has other redeeming qualities," one of the geeks giggles, eyes dragging over Frank like he's a meal. "Don't need imagination with a body like _that_."

Lieberman's grin is smug, the way a man might grin showing off some prized collectible, something other people wanted but he alone had. "Well, he's got a big gun and he _does_ know how to shoot it," he says, one brow popping up as Frank looks away. "Course, you have to compensate a man putting in that kind of... effort."

"Mmh, worth it though," The giggling one says, eyes still crawling over Frank. "I bet Marco would _love_ a chance to... compensate him."

This offered to Gelli, who rolls his eyes and does a good job of not looking too thrilled. Rumor was, Marco De Rossi wasn't the nicest guy to have playing boyfriend, but the glare this kid levels at the giggly one feels _almost_ real. The tell is how quick that glare melts into consideration, sharp eyes flicking over Lieberman, who just looks blandly curious and mildly amused, as if the talk of lending Frank out to some putz he's never even met doesn't bother him a bit. 

"Who's Marco," he asks, politely interested or maybe bored. Lieberman really is a damn good actor. "You didn't introduce me to any Marco."

"He owns the bar," Gelli says, considering now. "Actually, you might... he's gonna be hosting poker in a little while. It's mostly just him and old college buddies, you know, but I could put in a good word. I think he said they had an extra spot tonight."

Lieberman makes a show of weighing it, one more lingering look at Frank like he'd half made plans and was now forced to reschedule his interests. "Well, I'm not exactly what you'd call good at poker," he finally says, just the right amount of unsure to make it genuine. "They're not going to fleece me, are they? I'm only in town until Saturday..."

"All the more reason to stay for the game!" the boyfriend insists, and the rest join in. He'll have so much more fun, they tell him, if he stays and plays a little. He’s bought them all a few drinks, let them pay him back with a good time. At least meet Marco, he's such a charmer, and he'd be so mad at them if they let him leave without introducing him and his bodyguard. 

They all talk at once, a bunch of carrion birds descending on a dying man, picking at what they think are Lieberman's doubts and sensibilities until he has no reasonable choice but to agree. 

"Besides," the boyfriend says, and Frank wants to gut him, wants to kill him slow, the predatory way he looks over Lieberman, the dismissive glace toward Frank. " _I_ don't need compensation to show you a fun night, if you get tired of cards after a few hands."

Little shit. Frank looks forward to stomping his head into a proverbial curve. De Rossi might be the king shitkicker around here, but his associates -- including those presumed to be sexual partners -- have been a string of drug slinging, money running skeeves, and Frank's not inclined to play nice after standing here watching De Rossi's kept boy plan how to gut Lieberman's wallet and line his own pockets.

"Well, if they have an open seat, I can give it a shot," Lieberman says, sounding flattered and pleased at the attention. Frank hates it. Hates the thought of any part of this being real. The idea of Lieberman leaving with this little shit on his arm makes Frank angrier than anything Lieberman could have said when they were arguing as they got ready in that shitty airport motel room. "You don't mind, do you Jack?"

Franks jaw sticks for just a minute before he says, bored, "No sir."

“Oh, obedient too,” one of the bastards says. “Always nice to have a man who won’t sass back.”

Lieberman laughs, slipping his arm easily around the waist of De Rossi’s boy as he starts sauntering toward the back of the bar. “Trust me, he manages plenty of _that_.”

At the back of the bar, they wait a few minutes while the boyfriend goes back and presumably works out a deal and convinces De Rossi to give the open chair to Lieberman. This is the part they have no control over, the part that makes or breaks the ploy. Lieberman’s act won’t mean shit if Gelli doesn’t sell it, and it all goes to shit real fast if they can’t take the easy way into the back room.

Gelli comes out grinning, and a little of the tension in Frank’s gut eases. He lets De Rossi’s guards pat him down, knowing they won’t find anything because for once, he’s not carrying. The guns are already in the room, on the hips of the lowlife scumbags De Rossi employs; dropping the one by the door will be low effort, and if he ends up in a bad position to do that after Lieberman gets out, there are four other options and another gun strapped under the table where De Rossi sits.

Plenty of options, and Frank’s ready -- eager -- to see how they play out at this point

It’s a backroom poker game like a thousand others. Blue haze of smoke, handful of men in bespoke Italian suits smoking lazily around a table topped in faux-suede. De Rossi sits furthest from the door to the bar, closer to the door that leads out the back way. Frank already knows the door to the alley is locked on the inside, but three of the men in this room have keys to open it, and he’s not worried about getting trapped here.

De Rossi looks Lieberman over first, eyes lazy. Lieberman puts on a good act as a smarmy, greasy, rich hornball, used to getting his way and a stranger to the sound of anyone saying no, but compared to the reality of De Rossi, the character he’s brought to life seems mild mannered, down right sweet. 

Frank gets a totally different kind of look, something hungry, speculative. After a moment of enduring it, making himself look back with something between challenge and plain interest, Frank looks indifferently away, locking his hands behind his back again. De Rossi snaps and gestures Lieberman over to take the empty chair two seats away from him, and Gelli sets a rocks glass at his elbow as he’s sitting. Good service for a bunch of scumbags.

The game moves fast, ruthless. De Rossi has been known in his circle to play for three hours, more if he’s making a profit. Lieberman plays badly, loses several hands, wins one, folds, and then loses again. Finally, almost pouting -- Frank wants to tell him not to fuck it up now by over-acting -- he sets his cards carefully on the table, defeated, and says he should call it a night. 

“At this rate, I won’t have cash left to tip the bellhop,” Lieberman mourns, and Frank watches De Rossi’s smile curve, the way his eyes flick from Lieberman’s bowed head to Frank standing behind him. He’s been disrespectful, cutting, rude in a smug, condescending sort of way. He’s a bully, and petty; he doesn’t like the way Lieberman looks, doesn’t like that his boytoy is still flirting with him, doesn’t like that even losing Lieberman persists in being pleasant and moderate. He’s an asshole, but he’s not quite stupid enough to pick a fight when Lieberman has something he wants. 

“Tell you what, big man,” De Rossi says, grand as he sits back in his chair. “You pay me the four black chips you lost last round and tomorrow you pay that strapping fella behind you for stayin’ here to fill in for you the rest of the night, and I’ll call us even.”

Four black chips by the house rules they’re playing is a few hundred dollars. Compared to the couple thousand Lieberman’s lost with shitty hands and bad choices, it’s the kind of out any sane man would jump to take. But Lieberman plays it well, one final bit of bait; he looks over his shoulder at Frank like he’s uncertain, like this isn’t exactly what they wanted, and bites his lip again. 

“You okay with that, Jack?” he asks, and Frank knows damn well everyone else in the room is gonna read into that how Lieberman wants him to say no, he’s leaving with him. It makes him feel like an ass, even if it is all just a damn act, to raise a shoulder in a lazy shrug, indifferent. Just a guy on the clock. Lieberman frowns and pauses, then fetches a smile as he turns around and fishes out his billfold.

When he gets up to leave, Gelli tries to rise to, offering to see Lieberman out. De Rossi makes a face, shoving Gelli back roughly into his seat. “Losers don’t leave with friends,” he says, showing the closest thing to tact he’s managed all night by waiting to make that remark until the door shuts between Lieberman and the poker room.

And then it’s just Frank and some dead men in waiting.

“Jack, come sit by me.” De Rossi’s voice is sleek, the rumble of a contented predator provided a hearty meal. “Luca’s got lousy luck, you seen how many times I hadda fold.”

If Frank had it his way, he’d kill the man now. He probably could, but not without someone shooting him, maybe bad. He needs to get in close to De Rossi so he can get his hands on a gun, either the showy Colt in De Rossi’s shoulder holster or the more utilitarian one supposedly strapped under the table.

He makes himself smile as Gelli vacates the chair next to De Rossi, paints himself with a smug he doesn’t feel and lets the side of his thigh press into De Rossi’s. Bold, a swaggering idiot meathead looking to put out, exactly De Rossi’s type for a quick fling, according to all evidence.

Lieberman’s been gone less than twenty minutes when De Rossi’s hand slips onto Frank’s knee, thumb stroking in heavy arcs. Frank gives him a smile he knows has edges, confident De Rossi is stupid enough to mistake the ravenous violence in his look for a different sort of hunger altogether. 

Sure enough, De Rossi leans in, muttering something that sounds like a curse in either Spanish or Italian. Frank doesn’t rightly care which language it is, or what it means.

“You sure you don’t wanna wait til we’re alone,” Frank asks, voice an intimate rasp as he drops his own hand over De Rossi’s. “Got a lot of friends in here.”

“Oh, baby, don’t tell me you’re _shy_.”

“Alright,” Frank says, and lets his teeth show as he squeezes De Rossi’s hand, twists his wrist until something cracks, and jerks him down and over, half into his lap so he can get hold of his gun. “I won’t.”

This is the part that’s bound to get messy, whatever patrons left in the bar at half-past one on a Thursday morning bound to hear the ruckus, call the cops. Frank’s not interested in civilian casualties, and he prefers to avoid the mess of killing cops when he can. 

With a gun in his hand and another right close, ready to spring from the clip under the table, Frank feels better than he has all night. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you leave with plenty of your friends,” Frank promises, clearing De Rossi’s mind with a bullet before turning smooth to get a bead on Gelli. “Wouldn’t want anyone claiming you’re a loser.”


	3. Shrinking Distance

It’s brutal. War is always brutal. Frank at first takes nothing worse than a few strikes to his face when one of De Rossi’s goons tries to grab the gun out of his hand; he feels his lip break open even as he shoots the dumb fuck in the throat. His teeth ache with the blow, ringing sweetly, and it’s not _good_ , pain never is, but there’s something in it, in the sheer violence of it, that twists in him. 

Fights, real, live-or-die, every-move-counts fights, are not easy to parse. They blur, body acting more on instinct and impulse rather than following the more logical processes. It’ll be days later before Frank has any complete recollection of the exact progression of events, time passed in more moments of calm to sort the blurry recollections into a story to learn from. 

Like all fights, it’s a mess, every minute of it; he never expected it not to be. Clear out a den of drug pushing, gun smuggling wolves, you’re gonna leave a mess behind.

It’s not as smooth as he promised Lieberman. He gets winged by a stray bullet, and two of the assholes make a break into the civilian crowd out front before Frank can stop them. It’s not perfect, not clean, not flawless smooth, but he’s the one walking away head-up. He’s the one who only needs a brief detour to ditch his bloody clothes and change into things no one will look at him twice for wearing, running through an old safe house that’s really just a low-rent apartment Lieberman arranged under another false name.

He’s the one who ventilated De Rossi’s head, and the head of that smirking little puke who spent half the night trying to crawl into Lieberman’s lap.

The graze on his arm needs stitches, the split lip wants ice. He changes his clothes, pressing gauze over the torn skin, and doesn’t stop for anything else. There’s something feral in him that won’t lay its head back down until he sees Lieberman, and they agreed on a meeting place. Lieberman is waiting, and he’ll be a bitch about it if Frank doesn’t show up.

“Don’t you ever fucking ask me to do that again,” Lieberman snarls, stopping dead where he’s been pacing when Frank finally shoves his way through the door. “You hear me, you asshole? Never --”

Frank can tell the second Lieberman sees the split lip, the blood already seeping through slap-dash bandage he managed for his arm, soaking the sleeve of his dark shirt, matting cheap cotton to his skin. Anyone else, any other man seeing him stalk toward them like this, hands curled into fists and mouth bloody, would at least look scared, if not plain turn tail. 

Not Lieberman. Lieberman closes the distance between them, hand out to try steering Frank to one of the shitty folding chairs, the crease of his forehead all concern. “Christ,” he says, “sit down, lemme get the kit, lemme --”

Kissing him never felt so good. He’s still wearing that ridiculous purple shirt, it makes his eyes so green, so damn bright and soft as Frank bites his way into his mouth. Frank doesn’t bother making it kind; he can’t, he wants it to hurt just a little, wants to make Lieberman taste the blood on his teeth. 

It’s never like this. Usually Frank’s so fucking beat after a job he just wants to load up on sleep meds and black out for a while. Come down from the adrenaline, deal with the fallout later. Sometimes Lieberman stitches him up while he sleeps it off, sometimes he does nothing more than toss a blanket over him. Frank’s never been the sort to fuck after a big fight, though he’s met his fair share of folks who prefer it.

Frank’s never wanted another person the way he wants Lieberman. 

Lieberman tries to gentle the kiss into something warmer, softer; his hands settle on Frank’s arm, above the covered wound, and against the back of his neck, petting at the fine hairs there. He holds on, doesn’t push away or struggle -- he _yields_ for Frank in a way he never does, in or out of bed. His hands do not shake, they’re steady on Frank, and that strange feral thing in Frank’s head howls in savage delight, too much like the thing that comes out to feed in a fight.

He doesn’t realize Lieberman’s trying to talk until he manages to bite Frank’s lip saying his name, and Frank feels -- he feels --

If he stops, he’ll shake apart, he’ll collapse into bed and sleep it off and he’ll wake up, arm stitched neatly closed, army surplus blanket draped over him. If he stops, Lieberman will take that stupid soft shirt off and it’ll disappear, buried like the memory of this, kissing like it’s the only important thing in the world. If he stops he _loses_ , and he doesn’t even know what he’s playing for anymore. 

“Frank,” Lieberman manages again, and lets Frank kiss the rest of his words from his mouth, humming something annoyed but appreciative when Frank hooks fingers in his belt loops and jerks him in closer. 

They’d both cleaned up good before dressing for the job. Lieberman still smells faintly of the woody, cheap-perfume clean of Irish Spring soap, like aftershave and the smokey cologne someone at the bar must have been bathed in, but mostly now he smells like sweat, the heat of the evening and the humid, sticky summer night in a poorly ventilated room with not so much as a fan to offer relief taking its toll. The long hair curled down the nape of his neck wants to stick to his skin, a barrier between Frank’s skin and Lieberman’s. He needs a haircut. He needs another shower.

Lieberman at some point in his wait has opened the collar of his shirt, far enough down Frank can see the edge of his undershirt, making it easy to move his attention from Lieberman’s mouth to the soft flesh of his throat. There’s no hard lines on Lieberman under the suit; he’s all firm curves of flesh and fat, solid but just a little yielding, and Frank bites somewhere under his jaw, drags his teeth over the flesh, worrying a bruise there even as the angle puts knives in his shoulders and neck.

Fingers dig into his arm, the back of his neck, bare, the gloves gone. The act is gone, it’s been gone, but there’s something about the little tactile confirmations of it, skin on skin, the eager hitch of Lieberman’s breath when Frank drags teeth over the bruise again, trying to work it to something deep, a welt, raised and lasting. Lieberman’s pulse jumps under his teeth, breath catching, and the feral animal loose in Frank’s head approves, wild snarling noise in Frank’s head, want and pleasure as Lieberman holds on and lets him have his neck, have _him_.

Good. God it’s so good, all of Lieberman is always so --

“Frank, c’mon,” Lieberman tries one more time, his voice riddled in want and worry. His hands, holding on to Frank like he thinks he’ll fall otherwise, are hot and steady. “Talk to me, calm down a little, just… you gotta talk to me.”

They’re both hard, Frank can feel Lieberman against his thigh, hot and firm and straining the confines of those trousers, too well tailored to hide anything. It’s probably uncomfortable; it’s uncomfortable for Frank and he’s just wearing a pair of jeans so old they’ve faded to some non-colour and feel thin in the knees. When Frank gets a hand between them, palming Lieberman through his nice trousers, Lieberman chokes on some eager noise, fingers clutching where they touch. 

“Don’t wanna _talk_ ,” Frank bites out, rolling his palm, mapping the length and weight through expensive wool. Lieberman’s breath in his ear is hitching just the wrong side of desperate, the sound of it making Frank’s mouth water, thinking of all the ways to pull him the rest of the way over that line. “Don’t think you do, either.”

This isn’t how they do this. It’s never like this, it’s never Frank grabbing on, never Frank trying to take. This thing they do, this indulgent, dangerous thing, is better left for Lieberman to set the pacing of, better left for him find time for. He takes care of Frank, he keeps that snarling, howling animal part of Frank from breaking its chain and devouring.

Like this, Lieberman looks out of his depth, wanting, eager for it, but he’s not in charge. This is not how they do it at all, there’s no cot Frank’s been laid out on, no empty hours for Lieberman to fill with touches and commands meant to half-mock. 

This is a different animal alive and hungry in Frank’s brain. Not the war dog, but something sleeker, mangy and artless, implacable so close to what it wants.

Lieberman isn’t flirty like this, there’s no oily smile, no possessiveness in the clutch of his fingers (nine fingers, ten minus one, the toll of their association). Lieberman’s not an easy man to overwhelm, but Frank dropping heavily to his knees and working deftly to yank open his belt, get his fly open, that seems to turn the trick.

No one else gets to see Lieberman like this. No one but Frank, this is his, this thing, Lieberman’s hand petting into his hair, not trying to stop him, not forcing him to continue. His, Lieberman’s shaking exhales, his attempts to keep his breath steady as Frank leans in and gets his mouth on him through his boxers, tasting. The smell of him, too, that’s Frank’s; unmasked by soap or aftershave or anything else, just his skin, his sweat that Frank wants to bury himself in. Lieberman’s moan, soft and drawn, when Frank licks at the dampness in the center of his  boxers, tastes the bitter salt of him -- no one gets that but Frank. 

Dragging Lieberman’s trousers and his boxers down over his thighs, Frank lets them drop to the floor, the rattle of his belt loud against the hard floor, but not so loud as the sound that fights its way out of Lieberman’s throat when Frank takes his cock in hand and pushes it up against the heavy curve of his gut, leaning in to lav his tongue over his balls. Sweat and hot skin, his and only his, no one else gets Lieberman like this.

Another man might curl those fingers in Frank’s hair and pull, demand more, but not Lieberman. Lieberman takes what’s on offer and enjoys it and that’s why he’s _Frank’s_ , why this whole goddamn idiot mess _works_. 

They can afford this -- Frank can afford this, this small indulgence, this private moment with something no one else is ever going to have. 

Lieberman’s cock feels good in his mouth. The split in his lip aches with the stretch it takes to accommodate him, a sharp counterpoint to the arousal of being allowed, of being _welcomed_ to do this. Frank sucks wetly at the head, working his tongue against hot, leaking flesh while he curls a hand around the rest, slicking the stroke of his fingers with his own drool when he pulls back. 

“Fuck, _Frank_...” 

His name on Lieberman’s lips. No one else gets to take this man apart this way, no one else is going to _touch him_ \--

It’s dangerous, _god_ , it’s so fucking stupid, letting this ravening thing overwhelm him. It’s dangerous to allow himself to feel possessive, to put it so plainly even in the safety of his own head. Possessiveness marks entanglement, jealousy marks entitlement, and feeling these things for a man who knows him so well, who keeps clawing his way close, making himself more and more invaluable to Frank’s operations, that marks a weakness that can only get them both hurt.

And yet --

And yet, and yet, and yet Lieberman feels _good_ clutching against his scalp, sounds better panting curses as Frank grabs two handfuls of ass and tugs him closer, pushing himself forward to swallow as much of him as he can. He can’t manage it all, not without choking, but the perverse thought of Lieberman _making him_ is almost enough to make him cum, hot and messy, without ever opening his own jeans.

Shoved in close, Lieberman’s gut presses to Frank’s forehead, thick thighs rubbing his cheeks every time he bobs back in. Frank could die happy like this, Lieberman’s cock teasing into his throat, leaking on his tongue, his fingers holding in Frank’s hair, his curses muffled by all the rest of him surrounding Frank’s face. 

“Fuck me,” Frank says, half a demand and half a suggestion, pulling off so he can look up at Lieberman, watch the words and the want hit him. Hell of a thing to watch, disbelief and apprehension and _want_ , powerful as Frank’s own, and he doesn’t give Lieberman much room to think it over, sucking him back into his mouth, falling back into the too-shallow rhythm from before. Lieberman has always given him what he asks for, as long as he _asks_.

Lieberman has strong legs; the man does too much walking carrying too much of his own weight not to. Frank revels in the feeling of his thighs tightening as much as he does the grip of those hands on either side of his head. Lieberman couldn’t hold him there if he wanted to get away and it’s stupid, the way he hands control over like this, the way it feels so good, reduced to this thing for Lieberman to use. 

His, theirs; possessing and possessed -- this thing no one else can touch or see or have. His cock throbs and he fumbles, one handed, into his jeans, keeping one hand hard on Lieberman’s thigh, weak, horrible noises escaping with each thrust of Lieberman’s hips. Wet, ugly, broken sounds, eager for the taste, so close, letting himself be pulled and moved as he works Lieberman with his tongue.

“God, Frank -- your mouth, I’m gonna… fuck,” The sound of him, weak and ragged, the way he never sounds, he has all the control and he sounds completely out of it, no one’s name on his breath but Frank’s. “God, you just take it, you -- Frank, _shit… Frank…_ ”

Frank’s hand on his own cock is just clutching, jeans open and dick dripping on the floor between his knees. He’s barely moving, too overwhelmed by the numb burn of his lips, the way every solid thrust steals the opportunity for breath, surrounding him in Lieberman, the smell and taste and feel of him the only sensory input in the whole world that matters. There is no threat beyond that of Lieberman stopping, no goal more important than getting him off. 

There’s a moment where Lieberman seems to struggle, his grip tightening to the point of discomfort, humping against Frank’s face in barely-restrained desperation before he finally lets go, cum pulsing into Frank’s mouth, hot and too much to swallow easily. He tries, that wild, neglected animal wallowing in the sensation of complete lack of control, of having been used to completion; he works his throat trying to swallow until drool and cum is running down his chin, leaking from the corners of his mouth as Lieberman carefully pulls back.

If there’s a logic to getting off, Frank’s never found it. What it is about looking up to see Lieberman staring at him like that, a totally different hunger than his performance at the bar -- what it is about seeing someone honestly, nakedly _want him_ , Frank doesn’t know. He barely gets two strokes in on his own dick before his cum is shooting between Lieberman’s feet, right onto the pooled bundle of those tailored slacks and his spit-soaked boxers.

“Jesus,” Lieberman breathes, like he’s stunned, like he’s seen something worth being awed over. Frank just kneels there, control creeping back in. That starved, neglected animal goes willingly back to whatever dark cage its broke free from, sated, and Frank is left kneeling, hand curled loose around his own softening dick, uncertain how much of that is worth thinking about ever again.

When Lieberman moves, it’s careful, measured. Steps out of his newly ruined trousers, unembarrassed in his socks and button-down shirt combo. He touches Frank carefully, fingertips against Frank’s shoulder, grazing his jaw when Frank looks up, and --

He’s so soft, this man. Not in any of the ways Frank thinks it should matter; he’s not weak, not lazy, not squeamish. Like this, Frank just finds he’s _tender,_ gentle touches and soft eyes in a dim, ugly little room. “C’mon,” he says. “Get up. Let’s… Lemme at least look at that arm.”

And that’s something no one else is going to see from Lieberman either, that investment, that caring. As much distance as Frank tries to maintain, Lieberman keeps closing it, persistent. The real hell of it is, Frank doesn’t even know if he’s doing it on purpose anymore, or if this.. Thing, this indulgence he keeps caving to is just making him that slow.

“You fix the bed,” Frank asks, pushing himself to his feet, ducking out of Lieberman’s touch. He expects the annoyed flash in those green eyes, the way it hardens them a little; of course Lieberman fixed up the bed, Frank _knew_ he would have. He gets a hand on Lieberman’s neck, resting against the dark, angry bruise left by his own teeth, and kisses him before he can think better of it.

“Play doctor in the morning,” he says, and he knows full well it’s stupid, fully ridiculous, but the bed, in all manners of the phrase, is already made. “Come sleep.”


End file.
